


Quarter Past Midnight

by r0salynee



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drunken Kissing, First Kiss, First Meetings, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 07:05:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18544741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/r0salynee/pseuds/r0salynee
Summary: Two strangers walk into a bar.Prequel to the Green Light series.





	Quarter Past Midnight

**Wednesday, 12:15 AM  
Two Months Prior**

“Rough day, kid?”  
Miles groaned an unintelligible answer to the bartender, half his face hidden behind the palm of his hand as he accepted a refill of his beer.  
“I keep telling ya, kid, you’re too overqualified for that shit job, so why do you keep sticking around there?”  
No transportation? Closest hospital is nearly an hour away? No proof of his qualifications after he abandoned his last job in California? He’d rather just drink his problems away than actually deal with them? All horrible reasons to give.  
“It’s just temporary. I ain’t sticking around there forever,” Miles replied, gulping down some of his beer.  
The bartender wasn’t sold on the answer, but shrugged instead of pushing the issue further; the issue being that Miles was at this bar nearly every night since he moved back here. He became a quick regular, typically too drunk to walk himself home and would have to wait outside on the curb for his roommates in their one car to come get him. It was no doubt a hassle, but neither of them talked to him about it, or the underlying problem itself, so they continued to let it happen. Maybe they were hoping that he would eventually snap out of this funk, but Miles didn’t see that happening any time soon.

The front door of the bar swung open, a few other regulars greeted the newcomer.  
“Oh, here we go,” the bartender said suddenly, motioning towards the figure approaching the front end, “John, get over here and talk some sense into this kid, willya?”   
Miles glanced over his shoulder, catching a quick glance at the newly arrived patron, which he quickly had to fight back the urge to raise his eyebrows in surprise. The guy called John looked like a mixture of a biker and a pirate, a gruff looking older man with overly shaggy hair and beard combo, and an eyepatch over his right eye. John took the seat next to Miles, who didn’t seem to notice him staring.  
“Yeah sure I’ll do that,” the older man replied as the bartender brought him a glass of scotch without being asked, “What for exactly?”  
Miles stifled a laugh.

The bartender shot Miles a look before speaking, “Tell the kid he’s too good to be working for Greg Fucking Yates at the fucking post office.”  
“Ah, got it,” John answered, taking a sip of his drink, “Kid, you’re too good to be working for Greg Fucking Yates at the fucking post office.”  
Miles laughed at loud then; the bartender threw his hands up in defeat, muttering something under his breath along the lines of “great fuckin’ help, John.”  
“Such an eloquent pep talk from the two of you, truly,” Miles joked, taking a sip of his own drink.  
“Hey, I just got here,” the older man said in a faux-defensive tone, “Also, pretty sure we’ve never met either.”

He stuck out a hand towards Miles, “John Sears.”  
Smirking, Miles took his hand and shook it, “Miles Braun-Somwan.”  
“That’s one hell of a last name. Where are you from?”  
“Here, then Iraq, then California, then back here,” the younger man replied, purposefully being obtuse, “But if you really want to know, my mom is from Bangkok and my dad is from Ohio.”  
“No offense.”  
“None taken, everyone asks me eventually.”  
“Iraq, huh?” John took another sip, “You military then?”   
“Was,” Miles answered, “Marines. I’m guessing you are from some branch or that eyepatch is one real unfortunate hunting accident.”  
“Well, that’s classified.”   
“CIA?”  
“Was,” the older man said, smiling, “Retired before you were probably even born.”   
“I’m 29, thanks.”  
“I assumed you had a very convincing fake ID.”  
“It’s good genetics,” Miles said, feigning offense. 

John laughed, finishing the rest of his drink one swig, “Well, you’re already way too overqualified to work at a goddamn post office, so what else?”   
“Honorable discharge, then they were nice enough or at least obligated enough to pay for medical school,” Miles continued, nodding a thanks when the bartender replenished both their drinks.  
“So a veteran Marine AND a doctor? And you work for Greg Fucking Yates because…?”   
“It’s temporary,” the younger man said, for a second time that night.  
“Right,” John remarked, bringing the rim of his glass to his lips; Miles was unconsciously staring at them.  
“So what about you then? Mr. Former CIA hanging around a town like this,” Miles said, resting his head on his arm, weakly propping his head up from the bar.   
“Divorced,” John said plainly; Miles suddenly felt embarrassed.   
“Sorry,” he slurred, genuinely worried he may have upset the older man.  
“It was mutual,” John explained, shrugging casually, “We got married young, raised three kids, we just don’t feel the same way about each other anymore.”

An amicable separation. Miles wondered what that was like.   
“All that’s not important,” John said suddenly, “Still don’t know how YOU ended up back here, other than you’re originally from here.”  
The younger man went quiet, avoiding to answer by chugging down his newly poured beer.  
“Don’t wanna talk about it?”   
“Not really,” Miles replied, fiddling with his now empty glass.   
John shrugged, “Fair enough,” he flagged down the bartender for another refill for Miles, who wordlessly accepted it.   
“Won’t turn down the company though, will you?”   
Miles caught himself staring at John again, focusing on his lips before scanning over his broad shoulders covered by a thick leather jacket, then settling on his hands, wrapped around the scotch glass with a relaxed grip.  
“No,” he finally answered, voice low and slightly slurred. 

**Wednesday, 2:15 AM**

“C’mon kid, I gotcha,” John said, hoisting Miles off the barstool, one arm gripping at his waist while the other held onto his wrist, his thin arm stretched across John’s shoulder.   
Miles made another unintelligible sound, his head slumped forward in a drunken stupor.   
“You got ‘em, John?”   
The younger man couldn’t see the source of the voice, but knew it well enough to be the bartender’s.   
“Got him, Russ. You know where he lives at all?”   
“You remember that older house off of 19th? He’s right up in there with some friends.”  
Miles grunted in confirmation; John chuckled low.  
“Yeah, I know where that’s at. Alright, kiddo, gonna start walking here, you good?”   
Miles lulled his head up and down, hoping he was imitating a nod. 

He didn’t remember much of the walk, other than the blast of cold wind in his face, which sobered him up ever so slightly. He remembered hearing John’s voice next to him, but couldn’t fully make out what he was saying. The two stopped in front of a large black truck, which Miles assumed was John’s.   
“Gonna let you go to get the door, you still alright?”  
“Yep,” Miles replied, weakly.  
The younger man swayed slightly when John let him go for that brief moment before rushing back over to grab him before he stumbled around on the pavement.  
“Fuck, you are drunk,” John commented with a laugh, “Door’s open, c’mon, big step up and to the left.”

Inside of the truck’s cab wasn’t much warmer than it was outside; Miles vaguely heard the engine start up and the driver’s side door slam shut.  
“Sorry, old thing takes a while to heat up,” John explained, noticing Miles’ visible shiver.  
“S’fine,” the younger man slurred, propping his head against the headrest behind him, “Thank you.”  
“Course, I wasn’t just gonna leave you there,” John said with a smile, “Might wanna call in for work though, can’t imagine you want to be around Fucking Yates with the killer hangover I’m sure you’re going to have.”   
Miles laughed, “I don’t get hangovers, but I’ll take your advice.”   
“Good,” the older man said, clapping a warm hand on Miles’ shoulder, leaving it there for longer than a minute.   
The loud engine and the low volume of the radio playing the all 80’s station was enough to mask the quickened beating in Miles’ chest; John’s hand moved slowly from his shoulder to the crook of his neck, huffing out a breath when the younger man leaned into the touch and shot him an inquisitive look, but didn’t tell him to stop.

“C’mere, kid,” John’s voice was low, biting back trying to sound downright lustful; the tone still went straight to Miles’ groin as he crawled across the bench seating towards the older man. He was sure he yelped when John yanked him closer, positioning him so his legs would straddle his lap. Miles became more than aware of the shared hardness between the two of them, confined behind thick denim and boxers. He balled his fist, gripping onto the genuine leather jacket John wore like a lifeline, gasping as John moved his hands from his waist to the curve of his ass, squeezing it gently, before tracing his hands back up his sides.  
“God I wish you’d just kiss me already,” Miles blurted out, face flushed and chest heaving.   
“Feisty. I like that,” John replied, cupping the sides of the younger man’s face, bringing his lips to his to capture in a heated kiss.

The first kiss was… sloppy, to say the least. Miles’ drunken overexcitement neither helped or hindered the situation; John didn’t seem to mind much, matching the ferocity and neediness behind it all. His hands found themselves roughly gripping and squeezing the younger man’s ass again, earning him a guttural moan.  
“Holy fuck,” Miles slurred, groaning as John bit down on his neck and carded his hand through the longer tresses of the older man’s hair, “Fuck me, John.”   
“Is that an exclamation or a suggestion?”   
The comment was muffled against Miles’ skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake; Miles tried not to moan when John kissed the hickie that was definitely there now.  
“Both?”   
John chuckled at his reply; a growl escaped him as the younger man above him thrust his hips forward, purposefully grinding himself against his painful, clothed erection.

“I really want you to fuck me, John,” Miles said, voice and tone clear as day.   
“If I were 10 years younger, we could do it right here,” John joked, planting another kiss on Miles’ neck.  
“I’m serious,” Miles whined.  
“So am I,” the older man replied, biting back another chuckle.  
“Then take me to your place,” he whined again, “Or come to mine, I don’t care.”   
“You’re adorable when you’re horny,” John said, grinning.  
“If I’m so adorable then fuck me,” Miles retorted.  
“Oh I will,” John said, suddenly firm, “But not here, and not tonight.”

The younger man pouted before throwing his head back with a far too dramatic groan, “Fine.”  
John barked out a laugh at that.   
“Kiss me again though, I want more kissing--”   
“You know you’re vibrating?”   
“John you just said you aren’t fucking me so stop with the dirty talk at least--”  
“I mean your pocket is vibrating, kiddo,” John corrected, placing his hand on the right pocket of Miles’ jacket.   
The words took a few moments to process through Miles’ still drunk brain before realizing what John had meant.  
“Oh fuck,” Miles swore, rustling through his pocket to retrieve his phone, groaning at the three missed calls notification on the screen.

“I hope that’s not from a girlfriend,” John commented, glancing at the screen.  
Miles laughed, “More like a probably very pissed off roommate.”  
“Guess that’s my cue to take you home then.”   
Miles stuck out his bottom lip, contorting his face into another pout, prompting the older man to capture his lips in another, slower kiss.  
“Or we can just do that more,” Miles murmured, attempting to deepen the kiss.  
“That’s a little counter-productive,” John said, cupping the younger man’s cheek and smirking.  
“Right, right, not here, not tonight,” the younger man repeated.

Albeit reluctantly, Miles removed himself from John’s lap, returning to the passenger side of the bench seating. John took a deep breath, putting the truck in drive and lead them out of the dark parking lot of the bar. The ride to Miles’ home was quiet, save the low instrumental music playing on the radio. Despite the previous encounter, he couldn’t think of anything to say to the other man, or anything intelligent to say to him; even as they pulled into the dimly lit driveway, bringing their night together to an end. Miles sat back in his seat, letting another moment of silence linger between them before reaching for the car door handle.  
“Lemme see your phone for a minute,” John said suddenly.  
Wordlessly, and with a twinge of confusion, Miles handed off his phone to the older man. John fiddled with the device for a moment, brows drawn tight as if he were incredibly focused on what he was doing on the screen.  
Miles chuckled, “What are you doing?”

“Giving you my phone number,” John replied plainly.  
A breath hitched in his throat, and assuredly a blush spread across his face.  
“You’re giving me your number?”   
“Yeah, I have to check on you, don’t I?”  
Miles was, again, thankful for the loud motor of the truck drowning out his quickened heartbeat.  
“There you go, I can figure out how to use these fancy new phones,” John said triumphantly as he handed Miles’ phone back to him.  
The younger man bit back the knee jerk reaction to joke with John about his age; instead, he leaned across the bench seating to peck John on the lips one last time.  
“Good night, old man,” Miles said, smirking, unable to help himself.  
John shook his head, poorly hiding the equally bright smile on his face.  
“Good night, kiddo. Call me, y’hear?”

/ / /

**Author's Note:**

> SURPRISE BITCHES, YOU THOUGHT YOU SAW THE LAST OF ME.  
> I've been.... lazy mainly, but also working on some super secret projects that once I'm allowed to, will be posted!


End file.
